


Contact

by Ecanus



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: Angst, M/M, Sexual Content, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-02
Updated: 2012-08-02
Packaged: 2017-11-11 07:08:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/475913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ecanus/pseuds/Ecanus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Black Queen bans physical contact. Jack doesn’t like it, so he takes it out on Dignitary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Contact

You are the Draconian Dignitary.

At this moment you are sitting at your desk, going through an unusually large stack of papers. This particular stack of papers pertains to a recent law the Black Queen put in place, and judging by the amount of violations now flooding your workload, this is not going over very well.

All physical contact is now band. Even so much as tapping someone’s shoulder can cost you a finger or two. As well, absolutely no one but yourself is allowed in your resting quarters. Cameras have been installed to watch every door.

Why is this so? Simple. The war is fast approaching.

Reproduction is no longer a necessity, or, as it were, a priviledge. It was never truly needed. But while the battle remains in stalemate, the Dersites and Prospitians remain relatively at peace. They have children; families, even.

But now the children are being slaughtered. They won’t grow to maturity by the time the war begins. They are, in all aspects, useless.

The laws prevent reproduction in order to make way for cloning. It’s more efficient. To ban physical contact not only means no risk of births but also more focus from those destined to fight. No contact equals less desire, less desire equals more focus on the self.

You don’t care much for these rules, in all honesty. They’re just a nuisance. You have to keep a wide birth around each corner just to make sure you don’t bump into anyone. You’d rather some contact be permitted under certain circumstances, but you can’t really argue. They’re the laws, and your job is to enforce them, not debate them.

While you aren’t particularly fond of this work, you do enjoy order. Upholding the law isn’t too tedious, paperwork aside. And you intend to uphold it quite strictly for everyone.

Well… one or two exceptions, you suppose.

There’s a knock on your door. Jack Noir invites himself inside.

Ah, speak of the devil.

You’ve known Jack for quite some time. In fact you’re pretty sure you were both put into office at nearly the same instance. It didn’t take too many referrals and chance encounters for the two of you to form a friendship. Or rather, an alliance. You highly doubt Jack would call it the former, and neither would you. It’s more professional than that, despite the few moments of casual conversation and enjoying each other’s company.

There’s something admirable about Jack, you think. Disregarding his vulgarity and terrible attempts at being funny (or maybe he really is funny and you just lack a sense of humour), he’s easy to look up to. He’s ambitious and unafraid of voicing his opinion. He has the latter quality not out of bravery—though he likely has quite a bit of that too—so much as because he’s intimidating. You yourself are as such, with that monotonous look about you regardless of the situation, but Jack has a habit of scowling and carrying a knife or sword around at all times. He’s also rather stab-happy. Anyone who dares out him or disagree with him promptly receives a blade through the chest. The other Dersites know to keep their distance and keep quiet about him. You agree with him on most if not all arguments, and because of this you have successfully avoided his short fuse.

And maybe that is what you offer him in return; why he sticks around. Some sort of unspoken trust that he doesn’t seem to share with anyone else. So you bend the rules for him, and he confides in you while keeping his blades sheathed.

Lately, however, he seems to be a bit more… stubborn. With each new law set into place—with each moment that passes as they approach the war—he becomes restless in his pursuit for rebellion. The lame puns that you have grown so accustomed to are slowly being replaced by grumblings of heresy and hate under his breath. The grin that sometimes crossed his features have transformed into tight-lipped glares as he stares off and plots the kingdom’s demise. It’s like he’s on the very edge and one little push could send him careening downward; like one minute he’ll be here, and another you will never see him again.

He’s different, and somehow this makes you worried, angry, and even a little sad. Though you won’t admit it.

You don’t bother looking up as you greet him with the same emotionless ‘hello, Jack’ that you do every time. He doesn’t answer. You brush off the lack of reply as him being in one of those moods again, and continue with your paperwork.

There’s a click as Jack locks the door.

The scratching of your pen stops. For a moment neither of you make a motion to fill the utter silence that has coated the room. You break it, asking what Jack wants. Still he says nothing. You look up to see him still standing at the door. He’s staring right at you, his eyes a little squinted, his fists a little tense. You’re suddenly very nervous.

Jack says put the pen down. Immediatly you do, and even reassure him that you won’t pick it up again by sliding your chair slightly back and resting your hands in your lap. A strange tone in his voice that you’re not familiar with tells you this is important. So you stay quiet, and you wait.

He does nothing.

Both irritated and unnerved by his motionlessness, you open your mouth to speak. That’s when he moves. He strides across the room and before you know it, he’s standing right next to you. Then he’s pushing the side of your chair so that you’re facing him. He leans over you slightly, his fingers clenched around the armrests, placing himself in such a position that if he were to move just an inch or two forward both of you would receive a death sentence.

Your body goes rigid, but you succeed in maintaining your emotionless expression. For a second. After that your eyes go wide because Jack climbs on top of you, somehow managing to squeeze his legs between your own and the armrests.

This situation is not entirely new to you. Some time ago, when all alcohol had been prohibited, Jack imbibed more than he ever had in one night. You followed suite, after much persuasion. One thing led to another, which eventually led to the both of you stumbling over excuses the next morning and agreeing that it never happened.

While this moment has the same roots, it is also entirely different.

For one, neither of you are drunk.

You collect yourself before Jack notices. Jack, you say pointedly as he glares slightly down at you. Jack, did you forget about the cameras? He says no, he didn’t, he took care of them, he’s not an idiot. Do you think he’s an idiot? You clench your teeth and say no. However what you want to say is that sometimes you wonder. Like right now, for example.

His fingers push away your hands and fumble with the front of your pants.

You’re about to slap him away, but hesitate. Yes, this puts you in jeapordy, and yes, if someone were to unlock the door or fix the camera, the both of you would be dead men. But you’ve been in such predicaments before. Why would this be any different? Why should it be any different?

While you contemplate your available options, with your hands sort of hovering awkwardly in the air and unsure of what to do, Jack finally finds his way into your zipper. You squint your eyes a little more but don’t move. Instead you tell him he should probably think this over a little more. But then you realize that was a stupid thing to say. He went to all the trouble of shutting down the camera. He’s been thinking this over for long enough.

He says shut up, just shut the fuck up, in a rather hurried tone.

Then he kisses you.

But it’s not really a kiss. It’s more like he’s covering your mouth with his own to keep his hands free, and to keep you quiet. The few motions he attempts are forced. You try to pull away a little, but he only pushes harder.

He strokes you experimentally. At that moment you’re relieved he’s covering your mouth, because you’re sure you would have made some sort of undignified noise. You won’t lie to yourself. It’s been a while.

Your hands finally settle on the rests, clenching them as Jack sets a steady rhythm. He starts moving himself—his entire body, up and down. It’s slower than the pace of his fingers, but your imagination doesn’t seem to mind. You close your eyes and pretend it’s not his hand that’s making you hard. There’s a voice in the back of your head that’s screaming, telling you to stop this because of a new law or something. You ignore it.

He actually starts kissing you after a minute or so, maybe to make up for the fact that he’s no longer moving up and down, but rather in a fidgety manner. You’re not aware of what he’s doing. You squirm to make your discomfort known, but all he does is force his tongue into your mouth and quicken the pump of his hand. You are more than fine with this.

You’re not entirely sure when you gave in; when ignoring the law became forgetting it. All you’re aware of is what’s happening in your immediate area. Like Jack’s hand loosening its grip around your cock, only to have his thumb run along the bottom of it. Like how that thumb of his does something just beneath your head that makes spots form behind your unseeing eyes. Like the sound threatening to escape your throat as you jerk your head back and let out a short quiet gasp, mouths unlocking, hips bucking instinctively up to find the pressure again.

But his hand is gone. Rather than whining you squint an eye open to see what the hell the hold-up is. Then you gawk.

Jack’s pants are gone.

Oh.

So that’s what the fidgetting was about.

After taking that detail in—along with the fact that he’s already a little hard himself—you look up. He’s sucking on two of his fingers, head turned away and eyes shut as he slicks them with his own saliva. He reaches back after a moment. There’s an obvious tensing of his muscles as he slides the first digit in. And you just watch, as he exhales, as he stretches himself, anticipating what is about to happen. Your dick twitches at the thought.

One of your hands finally unclenches itself from the armrest and you stroke yourself nonchalantly, more to make up for the lack of attention than anything. Jack notices. He darts his squinted eyes to you in an accusing glare. So, he says, you get off on this? You stare back at him almost smuggly, considering the current situation. You glance down between his legs with a deadpanned but calm expression. You tell him you could ask him the same thing. The hard look plummets off of his face, and he returns to concentrating on the task at hand.

You’ll admit though, there is something gratifying about seeing Jack this way—stretched out over you, doing all of the work while you enjoy the show and all the things that follow.

He takes less than a minute. He pushes down on your shoulder with one hand, encouraging you to slide down the chair a little, while he spits on the other and slicks your length. You hiss silently between your teeth at the contact. Hopefully not loud enough for him to hear. If he did, he doesn’t comment, instead sliding your pants down a little more and shifting himself so that he hovers in a slightly awkward position just over your cock.

You don’t even have time to make a snide comment. Jack plunges down onto you, so unexpectedly that whatever you might have just been about to say comes out as a choked noise followed by a gasp. Your hands latch onto his hips. It’s like being pushed into a freezing pool and underestimating the shock to your system. But this isn’t a freezing pool, it’s Jack, hot like a goddamn furnace, his tightness surrounding you so quickly it’s almost painful. Your fingers dig into his skin as your length sinks inside him to the hilt, and he grunts in what sounds like appreciation. Maybe for the fact that now you’re mutually touching each other, rather than him assaulting you on the chair.

An alerting ring sounds through the room for half a second.

Your eyes dart up and momentarily the predicament is interrupted. A small red light flashes on the side of the surveillance camera in the corner. Panic floods your system. Oh yes, the law. You forgot about that.

“Four minutes.”

Your eyes dart back to Jack. “What?”

“Four minutes until it reboots,” Jack manages out, oddly calm, but there’s a clear hint of hysteria in his eyes.

Four minutes.

Four.

There is absolutely no way you can finish this in four minutes.

You begin shifting to push Jack off, assuming that he has the same mindset. Dead wrong. He flashes his teeth at you before pinning you back, grabbing the sides of your head, and his mouth pushes onto yours hard enough to bruise. He starts up a pace that makes you momentarily dazed, not really sure what else to do but kiss him back as his teeth nip and his tongue darts out to meet yours. You buck up into him unconsciously, as much as the position allows, and the movement takes Jack off guard. He breaks away from you to gasp in suprise, his hands seeking purchase on the chair’s backrest.

He says something like we’re done when I say we’re done, but you’re too focused on actually getting off in less than four minutes to register it. Not to mention cleaning up and getting Jack out of the room. Shit. You wonder if he planned this, just to challenge himself.

You don’t spend much time on the thought. One of your hands travels from his hip to the middle of his back, and you push him closer, enough that your face is nearly pressed into his chest.

You let go.

You don’t care about what the hell Jack is doing. You focus on the important things, like his movement, the feel of your cock sliding in and out, his little pants and cusses that are simultaneously fueled by frustration and pleasure. Your mind sprints through different scenarios in its desperate search for just the right one to get you going. A woman instead? Maybe somewhere different? But ultimately, and surprisingly to you, it settles on one in which the two of you are flipped around, him lying beneath as you take complete control. Jack begging. On your desk, in fact. It wouldn’t be hard to shift the two of you around and make it a reality.

Two minutes.

Your head lolls against him, and if you’re making your own noises you’re not really aware of them. The weak thrust of your hips becomes erratic; at this point you’re mostly relying on Jack to set the pace, which he does quite well. Your limbs are beginning to quiver with the effort, but you can feel it. It’s right there, just in reach. But god it’s so hard to grab when your thighs and back ache from fucking Jack in a chair.

You can tell he’s close too. Jack’s hand is on his own cock, stroking feverishly as the clock ticks down.

He mutters ‘please’ right in your ear.

You know it’s not to you. He’s saying it to himself, hoping that in some way he’ll persuade his own body to come a little faster. But that’s not what your imagination hears. It’s hearing him begging you, on that desk less than a foot away, wanting you to fuck him into the hard surface.

He fumbles the word out again, and that’s really all it takes.

Your fingers clench and your mouth falls open a little, face hidden beneath his chin as you come noiselessly inside of him, the fact that he’s still moving drawing out your orgasm. You relish in that momentary nirvana, hardly conscious to the fact that Jack follows you seconds later, releasing into his palm to avoid a mess.

The both of you slump back, exhausted, for a moment not caring about the camera. But eventually it dawns on you that if you’re caught you’ll be executed, and you hastily shove Jack away. He grimaces but doesn’t complain.

Thirty seconds.

Shit.

Both of you scramble about, grabbing the tissues on your desk and hastily wiping away the mess, fixing your clothes and making sure not a single thing is amiss. Your mouth is a little damaged, tiny cuts from Jack’s razor sharp teeth evident, but they’re small enough that no one will notice unless they breach your personal space.

Few words are exchanged. Some are clipped commands, most are swears. You sit back down in your chair as Jack darts to the door. He peeks outside, making sure no one is there. Then he leaves. Doesn’t even look back. The door clicks behind him.

It’s over.

The camera whirrs to life. You glance at it, pretending to be confused by the noise, as if unaware that it had been off, then sigh and return to your paperwork.

As if nothing happened.

—————

Rarely a day passes now that Jack doesn’t greet you with a fuck.

It hasn’t been too long, maybe a little over a week since the first time, you’d guess. He’ll find you in a public but unguarded hallway—make you blow him or vice versa, depending on his mood—or an abandoned storage room with walls thick enough that sound isn’t an issue.

Jack knows the guards’ schedules by heart, and where the cameras are. He still manages to add a thrill to it—getting his pants up just as a guard turns the corner, just before the cameras start working again. He’s pushing himself, waiting for that moment when he’ll snap and refuse to take any of this shit anymore. Meanwhile you play along with it. You’re not one to give up a good lay when it’s offered to you. Or forced. More the latter in this case, since you’re sure Jack would slice your throat open if you refuse. You’re not going to complain, either way.

But something… changes.

He enters your room for the second time, a week and a half later. You swivel your head around. The camera’s still on. You’re about to mention this fact but he interrupts you, saying calm the fuck down, he used a film loop. You do as you’re told, even settling back in your chair for the imminent events. He locks the door and waltzes over.

Get back to work, he says.

You look at him, trying not to reveal your surprise. However his gaze is averted, his hands clasped behind his back as he stares nonchalantly out the high window to your left. With some hesitance you return to your work, reading and signing papers with a wary hand.

Minutes pass before he speaks. How’s the workload been lately, he asks. You take a second to answer, muttering that it’s no more than usual. He says he sees. He continues peppering you with mundane questions, like if you’ve seen Droll or Brute lately, and how has your health been, until eventually he runs out of things to say and the room returns to its usual silence.

The scritching of your pen is harsh on your ears.

Suddenly he’s right beside you, taking you by surprise since you didn’t even hear his footsteps. He pushes your chair out a bit, but rather than straddling you, he sits on your lap. He leans back as you sit still, hands hovering, confused.

Keep working, he says.

So you do. It’s a little awkward, having to lean slightly sideways just to see your papers, with one of your hands trapped on the armrest. He sighs as if in contentment, but you feel that his body is still slightly stiff, as if forcing himself to do this.

He reaches over and grabs your trapped hand, twining your fingers together. Your pen stutters mid-signing and leaves an obvious unrepairable squiggle. He notices but doesn’t comment. Instead he tightens his grip. Not painfully. Almost… comforting? You’re incredibly lost. This is very unlike Jack. You know that everything he does has a hidden meaning, but you thought being intimate in any way shape or form was beyond him. Apparently not.

You can feel him looking at you as you continue filling out papers. There’s a weird feeling in your gut that you don’t want to acknowledge.

He leans forward and nuzzles the side of your face. You freeze. Jack, you mutter, trying to sound threatening but failing miserably. He says nothing, continuing, his breath brushing across your skin as he moves along. It’s so unbelievably quiet and you have no idea what to do. Your pen hovers over one of the legal papers, fingers frozen as you try and figure this out.

Jack’s free hand travels to your throat, feeling the area just beneath your jaw. It’s only then that you notice the thing in your chest beating faster. Your pulse is strong underneath his fingers. You can keep a straight face, but your pulse is a dead give-away. You hold back an embarrassed swallow.

You tell yourself silently that it’s just the awkward atmosphere making you act this way, nothing more.

His mouth finally reaches yours. For a moment you’re expecting him to dive in, quick and vicious, tearing at your skin. But it’s soft. Gentle. Patient. You want to break it and ask who he is and what the hell he’s done with Jack, but for whatever reason, you don’t. It’s so surreal—like the first time he entered your office—yet completely different. You respond hesitantly. He rewards you for it with the stroke of his thumb against your wrist, then his tongue gliding across your mouth.

You don’t know when you closed your eyes or put your pen down. You can feel him watching you. Curious? Judging? You’re not entirely sure. You’re not sure you care either. You feel your mind drift away as you fall into the motions, your free hand moving to his waist, mouth following his, at a pace that’s sensual and yet slow, pressure increasing without any inclination of it becoming violent.

You’re already hot and you’ve done next to nothing. You weren’t this bothered any other time until he had your dick in his hand or his mouth. Yet right now you’re just kissing. Maybe because it has meaning; rather than straight-up fucking you’re taking your time and building up. Maybe because it feels like you’re lovers instead of strangers.

By the time you move these thoughts aside, both of your hands are grasping desperately at Jack’s waist, his fingers cupping your head as you push your open mouth desperately against him. Your heartbeat is hammering in your ears, your breath coming out harsh. The front of your pants is getting a little tight; you’re sure Jack can feel it. He breaks away but keeps his forehead pressed against yours. You lean forward and almost whine. Both of you are panting slightly, and when you open your eyes you notice he’s half-lidded like you. But there’s a tightness in his features, like he’s holding back a glare. Like he still means business.

On the desk, he says.

You grit your teeth to hold back a moan.

You do as you’re told, standing and lifting him onto the desk. Both of you fall back into the kiss, calmer now. As you push him down, one of the stacks of papers falls over, spilling half of the sheets onto the floor. You pay it no attention. Instead you continue, consumed by the fact that you’re about to go through with what you’ve been fantasizing about for nearly two weeks.

It’s slow and passionate and surreal, but you wouldn’t have it any other way.

—————

Time flies by.

Little else happens besides paperwork and the two of you fucking—half of the time rough, the other half awkward and intimate. Sometimes you don’t even get that far anymore. Sometimes it’s just Jack holding your hand and sitting in your lap. He’ll talk to you, grow silent, stare off at nothing, then leave. There is never a time that he’s around you that there isn’t at least one moment where he’s glaring. Plotting. Seething.

You get attached to these meetings, despite yourself. You don’t let it show, but under your neutral mask there’s that little part of you that jumps when he’s around. Kissing him becomes natural.

But not for him. Despite it all, he always feels tense around you. It worries you for some reason, but you wave it off. It shouldn’t worry you. Why would it?

What are you hoping for?

The inevitable happens. Three weeks since it all began, it happens. Just as it did with his drinking. Just as it did with every law he hates.

He gets bored.

He stops visiting your office. He stops pushing you against hallway walls and into empty rooms. He just stops. You hardly see him anymore.

There’s a tightness in your chest. You feel… betrayed. But why should you? Of course it was just Jack rebelling in his silent way. Of course he was just using you because he knows he can trust you, and in a way testing that trust. Of course that’s all it was.

So why do you care? Why does your heart jump into your throat every time someone knocks on your door, only to fall down again when it’s not him? Why does your hand feel oddly empty all of the time?

You want to throw up, but you can never tell if it’s out of digust with yourself or if it’s because of Jack.

You sigh as you snap another pen in half.

You hate this.

You hate everything.

—————

You are Diamonds Droog.

It’s been nearly a year since your exile. You and the rest of the Crew have just come back from a successful heist, celebrating with a few rounds of beers at a nearby jazz club before coming back to watch an old grainy film on the hideout’s cheap television, as per usual. You’re all pretty drunk and watch the movie carelessly, more as background noise than anything. Boxcars and Deuce sit cross-legged on the floor, swaying slightly from the booze, while you and Slick sprawl on the couch.

Halfway through, you feel Slick lean against you. You blink and look down at him. It’s not a conscious movement—he’s falling asleep and not aware that he’s currently using you as a pillow.

Memories flood back. As they always do during these moments. The tightness in your chest returns. The nauseous feeling follows. For a few minutes you consider asking him.

_Do you remember, Jack? Do you?_

_Was I just a tool to you?_

_Would you do it again?_

But as always, you stay silent, because by the time you gather up the courage to speak he’s long gone. Your mouth sets into a thin line.

The credits start to roll. The other two get up, wobbly, and notice Slick has fallen asleep. Should I get him, Boxcars asks. You say it’s fine. He nods and leaves, Deuce following closely behind.

You look down at the man again, then up, sigh, and turn the other way.

You wrap your arm around him and thread your fingers together.

And you stare into the dark, hoping for something that will never be.


End file.
